Callie.
She sneaks out like me, all alone. I think she goes out to see Reed Jackson. The guy we saw at the bar a few weeks ago.
I’ve caught her a couple of times but never said anything because she’s always given me my space. But I decide to say something after the Elanor incident.
“Is it him?” I ask her one day, pulling her aside in the library, and she flushes.
I don’t have to explain to her who him is. Her gorgeous villain.
“Not really. But yeah.” Then, “Is it him?”
And she doesn’t have to elaborate on who my him is either. My darling Arrow.
“Yes.” I nod. “Are you going to stop?”
She bites her lip for a second before shaking her head.
I smile sadly at her. “Yeah, me neither.”
“You love him, don’t you?” she asks, but when I clam up, she raises her hands. “It’s okay. You don’t have to tell me and I don’t need an answer… to know.”
I smile. “Do you? Love him, I mean.”
She doesn’t clam up but there’s a sad smile on her lips. “Guys like that, you don’t love them. You get consumed by them and then you wonder if there was ever a time you didn’t think about them or feel them or hear them. Or see them in your dreams.”
Yeah.
She’s right. You don’t love guys like that. You get eaten up by them and you love every bite they take out of you.
So we’re both tempting fate. And the truth is that we probably will keep doing it.
Or at least, I will.
I will keep sneaking out of my room, scaling the fence and meeting Arrow at midnight. I will keep going out on rides with him where he speeds and I lean back and open my arms, letting my hair fly. I will keep going to his motel room with him too.
That dull gray room where I became his.
Because how can I not?
He needs me, doesn’t he?
He needs me to distract him from all the things inside of him.
He needs me to be a giant pain in his ass and tell him to put out his stupid cigarette when he gets stressed over his supposed failures. Over the fact that he wasn’t with the team, helping them win. When he doesn’t listen to me and puts out his cancer stick, he needs me to put my mouth on his and kiss him, inhaling that smoke into my own lungs.
When he fists my hair and pulls my mouth back, looking all hot and angry, he needs me to tell him, “If you wanna kill yourself, then I’ll die with you too.”
And when he gets all jacked up by that, he needs me to spread my legs so he can fuck it all out of his system.
Oh, and he needs me to show him all the chick flicks so he doesn’t keep watching the game tapes over and over, analyzing his team’s every move.
And when he works out too hard, he needs me to wipe off his sweat.
Because Jesus Christ, he does.
He does work out too hard.
All those weights in his room that I saw the first night, they are for his training. Just because he’s sitting this season out doesn’t mean that he can slack off.
In fact, he’s working harder than ever.
Every morning, he goes for a run. He works on his own drills at the local club house.
Every night when I go to sleep after the awesome sex – he was right; I do slip into a coma-like nap after sex – he works out again, a few feet away from the bed.
One night I wake up from my nap and catch him doing pushups on the floor. On one fucking hand. His other arm is up and folded at his lower back, and he’s shirtless.
When I turn on my stomach to get a good look at him, Arrow’s eyes snap up.
They’re all dark and burning up with this aggression inside of him.
Sweat drips from his forehead as he watches me and does rep after rep. I see the planes on his back moving and shifting, like wings of some kind.
Tight muscles that bunch and release. Or maybe mountains, emerging from his back before disappearing within his body with every rep.
It’s such an aggressive and masculine thing, the dance of his muscles and his harsh stare, that I rise up from the bed.
I let the sheet fall away from my shoulders and pool at my knees, leaving me naked, my hair swaying at my back.
Arrow’s nostrils flare at the sight of me, but he doesn’t falter.
He keeps going up and down, his breaths noisy and whooshing, his muscles in a state of constant making and unmaking.
When I’m on the floor, I come down on all fours and begin to crawl over to him.
He narrows his eyes at me, still going up and down, and I crawl and crawl until I reach him.
Until I’m so close to him that his sweat-drenched hair grazes my chest and my stomach. Until the puffs of his heaving breaths explode on my naked skin and his silver chain hits my ribs and my belly button.
I put my hand on his shoulder to find that he’s burning.
“Stop,” I whisper.
His muscles flex and he works harder, if at all possible.
“Stop, Arrow.”
No effect.
“Please? For me?”
That does it.
He stops then.
But if I thought he’d go down on the floor in a heap of tired and burning muscles because God, they’ve got to be burning, then I’m wrong.
Because he comes up on his knees, sweat running like a river between his heaving pecs, and grabs my hair in a fist, making me look up at him.
“I had it,” he bites out, glaring at me.
I put my hand on his sweat-shiny chest; his dead heart is thundering. “I know you did.”
“Twenty more reps and I would’ve been done,” he pants. “I would’ve broken my record.”
See? I knew it.
I knew he was trying to break some kind of a record.
My stupid, darling Arrow, always trying to prove something. Always trying to be perfect when he already is so, so perfect.
“And probably killed yourself in the process.”
He leans down on me and the droplets of his sweat plop down on my body like rain. “I. Had. It.”
I study him for a beat, his panting, tight body, and I wind my arms around his neck. I go flush with his chest, his sweat slathering on my tits and stomach.
“Do you remember the time in your junior year?” I ask against his lips, my tongue peeking out to lick up the sweat and I can barely contain my moan at his musky taste. “You had a game. And you were playing your rival school and you guys were trying man-to-man marking for the first time?”
His eyes go back and forth between mine. “Yeah.”
“And since it was new to you, you practiced like crazy, and the night before the game, you didn’t even come home. Because you were practicing.”
He didn’t; I remember that.
I wonder if he was smoking then. If the stress of the game became too much for him and he almost killed himself for it, like he’s doing now.
“What about it?”
I shake my head at him. “It was stupid then and it’s stupid now.”
His fist tightens in my hair and he finally puts his other hand on me. On my ass; he loves my ass. Or at least, he loves spanking it and worrying and plumping the flesh.
Arrow pulls at my cheek. Hard. “Excuse me?”
But I don’t get deterred; I pull at his sweaty hair in response. “You were and you are.”
“We won that game.”
I know. I was there. He doesn’t know it but still.
“So? Winning doesn’t mean you kill yourself for it. If that’s what you’re doing all the time, all this stress and all this pressure, then how do you enjoy it? The game that you love so much.”
“I don’t play to enjoy the game. I play to win it.”
“So what do you do when you want to have fun?”
“I fuck you.”
I clench my thighs. “So are you going to?”
“
Is that why you crawled over to me? All naked and pretty. Because you want to get fucked?”
My channel is pulsing at his rough tone. “Yes. But also to stop you.”
“From killing myself.”
“Yes.” I pull at his hair again. “Because if you wanna kill yourself, I’ll die with you too. Remember?”
His fingers on my body tighten and tighten to the point where it hurts so deliciously. “You’re a goddamn pain in my ass.”
“But will you still kiss me?” I ask, all shy and pretty like a good girl.
And he does.
He kisses me and then he fucks me on the floor and I spread my legs as far as they go and arch my back. I let him take out all his frustration on my body as he grinds into me with his big, fat cock.
But that’s not all he needs me for.
He also needs me to slip sexy little notes into his mailbox at St. Mary’s.
Because the other day, he ordered me to stop or I’m risking being caught flirting with the coach. Not to mention, it’s his rule that he won’t do anything on the school grounds.
Please.
Obviously, I break both his rules so he can break them too, and see that the world doesn’t fall apart when he does.
So I send him little notes about how much I need him and I keep sending them until he sends for me. When I get there, wearing my mustard-colored skirt and my hair tied up in a braid, I find him sitting in his throne-like chair.
He tells me to lock the door first.
Then he tells me to untie my hair and when I do that, he commands, “Show me.”
With my back against the door, I inch up my skirt. I slide my thong off my core and show him the peach between my legs.
He stares at it for a few seconds, his fingers gripping the arm of his chair in a harsh, violent grip before he commands me to play with my pussy.
I do that too until I make a mess of my fingers and my thighs, and until he’s springing from his chair and coming at me. Picking me up, he brings me to his desk and spreads me out like a meal he’s about to consume.
Flipping my skirt up, he enters me in one go and I arch my back.
“But I-I thought you had a rule,” I tell him, scratching his abdomen under his t-shirt as he pounds into me.
“I changed my mind,” he growls, fisting my messy hair. “You need my cock. So I can straighten out your bad girl pussy, bang her into shape.”
Biting my lip, I smile and moan and scratch. “And see? The world is still well and alive around us even if you broke a rule to make me a good girl.”
That makes him pause for a second, his lips parted and swollen from my kisses, his eyes lust-burnt.
“You think you’re so smart, don’t you?” he growls, punctuating those words with a harsh stab of his cock, making my entire body jiggle. “But that’s not what you are, remember?”
I pant, my thighs trembling around his hips. “Arrow…”
Grabbing the edge of his desk over my head, he shoves his cock into me again, inching that heavy piece of furniture up with the force. “Tell me who you are.”
I dig my nails into his stomach when he stops, waiting for my answer. “Your fuck doll.”
“Yeah, so you don’t make the rules, do you?”
“No.”
“Who does then?”
“My Arrow makes the rules.”
Still, he doesn’t move, making me wait and wait and wait…
“Arrow, please…”
“It hurts, doesn’t it?” he asks, his chain pooling on my throat, over my madly pulsing vein. “It hurts to wait. Is your pouty, bratty pussy hurting, Salem?”
I squirm my ass on his desk. “Yes.”
His dick lurches inside of me, throbs like my soppy channel, and yet he’s stubbornly stationary.
“Who’s making it hurt, baby?” he whispers, going for my lip, nipping the fat curve of it.
“You,” I reply. “My Arrow is making my pussy hurt.”
As soon as I’ve said it, he gives me what I want.
He resumes his movements and I close my eyes in relief.
“And who’s making your pussy feel good now?” He licks the spot on my lip that he’s just nicked with his sharp teeth.
“My Arrow.” I grab his sweaty hips, urging him to move faster. “My Arrow is making my pussy feel good.”
When he makes me come a few minutes later and empties himself inside of me – or the condom actually – almost simultaneously, I wonder again.
How can I stop?
He needs me.
He needs me to love him.
Because if I don’t, then his rage will eat him alive.
His rules and aggression. His pursuit for perfection.
His anger.
So yeah, I can’t stop.
I have to tempt fate.
For him.
***
It’s way past midnight and I’ve just woken up after my coma-like after-sex nap.
I’m at the foot of his bed and I blink my eyes open to find him directly opposite to me, propped up on the pillows, chest bare and one of his knees bent.
He’s reading something on his iPad that’s resting on his folded leg, a frown of concentration between his brows.
Well, at least he isn’t killing himself down on the floor like he usually does.
I watch him for a second, absorbed in whatever he’s reading, all lit up and sexy under the yellow light of his lamp.
This is exactly how he used to look back when we lived together while he did his homework or studied for a test. I’d watch him, hiding behind a wall or a piece of furniture, wishing I could go talk to him. I could tell him good luck or I know you’ll do great on the test or something.
Which makes me realize that I can do that now. I can tell him things.
At least, some things.
So I move.
I get under the sheet and slither toward him in the yellowed darkness. I kiss his foot, the naked calf of his leg that’s stretched out.
Getting on all fours, I shower kisses on his pretty dick. It was flaccid before, but now it’s hard and radiating his signature heat.
Every time my lips touch his hot flesh, he tightens, his muscles strain and his dick becomes even harder.
I smell it and moan.
I suck his head into my mouth and hum, my body writhing on its own, reveling in his taste. I’m about to dig my tongue into the little slit up top to bring out more of his juices, but his hand creeps inside the sheet and fists my hair.
He jerks me away and forces me to crawl over his sexy, muscular body. Until I’m out of the sheets and straddling his tight abdomen, his cock in the crease of my ass.
“Hi,” I whisper, smiling.
Arrow takes his time studying me, my naked form. His hooded eyes sweep over my face as he counts my freckles before moving down. He stares at my pointed dark berry-like nipples – he calls them pouty too – before twisting one with his fingers, making them harder and achier.
He smirks. “Hey.”
I put my hands on his chest and play with his chain. “Why’d you make me stop?”
“Because we need to go in a little while.”
“Can’t I stay with you?” I pout.
Moving away from my breast, he brings both his hands to my ass and grabs the flesh. “No.”
“Maybe a little longer?”
“No.”
I pout harder. “Why not?”
“Because I don’t need a needy girl clinging on my back.”
I slap his chest and he swats my ass. Then, “And because I’ve got something to say.”
At this, I completely sober up.
Arrow never has something to say. Never.
I’m the one with all the things to say.
So I frown and look into his eyes; they’re slightly amused. “You’ve got something to say?”
“Yeah.”
I lick my lips and his eyes
take in the movement like they always do. He asked me what my lipstick was called as soon as I met him at his motorcycle. When I replied Good Bad Girl, he proceeded to wipe it off my lips with his mouth before spreading me open on his motorcycle and eating out my bad girl pussy.
I shiver at the memory but manage to control myself. “Well, what is it?”
He studies me a beat and I start to die with all the anticipation when he murmurs, “I think you should apply for the Galaxy’s youth program for next summer.”
“What?”
“Yeah.” He nods thoughtfully. “They pick people from high schools and colleges and train them to go pro. And they have summer camps every year. I played with them, back in high school one summer. They’re pretty good. Taught me a lot.”
I know he did.
He was a junior when he went. That entire summer I missed him like crazy. I didn’t feel the sunshine until he came back. As always, I wanted to run over to him but couldn’t. So I watched him from afar, while he greeted his mother and hugged my sister.
“You want me to go there,” I say.
“To the youth program, yes.”
I open and close my mouth for a second before I manage to ask, “Are you saying that I… I play soccer. Like for real. On a team.”
“Yes.”
“But I’ve never played soccer for real. I-I mean, I don’t even know how to play with a team. You said it yourself that first week. I’m not… I’m not good enough for that.”
I mean, I have improved.
I do play with the team now and try to gauge their plays and assist them. Plus Arrow trains me three times a week.
We do all kinds of drills and God, the way he makes me run. It’s only for an hour but I almost want to die by the end of it.
The other night, he taught me how to head the ball. He told me that you don’t really use your head. You use your shoulders and your upper body. You get the strength from there and balance from your legs and then you shoot from your head, all the while poking and prodding at my body and positioning me.
“What happens if I don’t follow these rules?” I asked, just to tease him because he was starting to look really serious.
He spun the ball on his finger before launching it in the air and kicking the shit out of it. It soared over the field and punched the net right in the center.
“Then you break your neck and you die. Or you break your neck and spend the rest of your life in a wheelchair. Now can we start?”
My Darling Arrow Page 25
